


Pretty in Pink

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [12]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Wilford's trying something new, and learning as he goes. Dark is less than amused.





	Pretty in Pink

"Why _pink_?”

Wilford looked down at his bowtie, suspenders, mustache. “Well,” he drawled, wiggling his mustache, “why not?”

Dark folded his arms, critical. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Of course it does!” Wilford raised his arms, spinning around. “Everything matches!”  


Dark rubbed his forehead, sighing. “It’s better than that pinstriped nightmare,” he muttered, tired.

“Hey,” Wilford jabbed, looking at him, “at least I’m not a monochrome vampire.”  


“Shut up, Wilford.” Dark stretched his arms, getting to his feet. “Is that all you called me in here for? A wardrobe?”  


“Absolutely.” Wilford puffed out his chest with pride, looking himself over in the mirror.   


With a huff, Dark left Wilford’s room, going back out into the apartment. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Wilford’s smile dropped. He turned back to the mirror, rubbing the fabric of his bow tie between his fingers. He hadn’t meant for it to be pink, but he was never going to mention that to Dark. 

There were only a few ways to get dark, red bloodstains out of white fabric, after all. 

* * *

It’s a few days later by the time Dark can spare a moment for Wilford, busy as he is. 

“Dark, could you, er, come here a moment?”  


Dark sighed, getting up, muttering about how he’d _just_  sat down, couldn’t he get a _moment_  of peace in this house? “What is it?”

“Just. Come here.” There was a trembling note to his voice, and Dark quickened his steps.   


Dark opened the tiny laundry room door-- really just a closet with a washer and dryer and cabinet full of detergent-- to find Wilford with a garbage bag and the smell of rust in the air. “What?”

“Er,” Wilford dropped what he was holding, red beginning to pool at his feet, dripping from the corners of the bag. “I can explain later.”  


Dark put a hand to his forehead. “Is that blood?”

“It was an accident. It’s not mine,” Wilford said, as if that made the situation any better.  


“You’re _covered_ in it, Will.”  


“Can you just shut up and help me?”  


Dark rolled his eyes and pushed his sleeves up, squatting by the garbage bag. Inside, positively soaked in blood, four or five sets of clothes in a variety of sizes and colors. Of course, right now they were all a murky shade of red-brown. 

Dark sighed. “Okay. How long have these been in here?”

Wilford blinked. “A couple hours.”

Shifting through the clothes, wrist-deep in blood, Dark separated the jeans from the shirts, piling them on the floor. “You too,” he said, not even looking up.

“M-- me?”  


“You’re dripping, Wilford. Not on the carpet.”  


Mumbling, Wilford stripped off his shirt, then his pants, dropping them in their respective piles. “Fine,” he said, crossing his arms over his bare chest, looking uncomfortable in nothing but heart-patterned boxers. “Now what?”

“Hand me that bottle.” Dark pointed, a large, unmarked bottle in the cabinet. 

Wilford lugged it over, sloshing, and wrinkled his nose. “Gross, did you pee in here, or--”  


“Pay attention,” Dark snapped, baring his fangs. “I’m only going to show you how to do this once, and I suspect you’ll have to do it many more times.”  


Wilford fell silent as Dark took the full bottle and unscrewed the cap. “This is ammonia,” he explained, still managing to sound annoyed. “We normally put two capfuls in with a load, which is two-thirds of a cup.”

“Since when do you expect me to do math?”  


Dark shot Wilford a dirty look. “You have a lot of blood here. That means we put in a full cup. Will, if two capfuls is two-thirds of a cup, how many capfuls is a full cup?”

Wilford squinted at Dark. “You’re mocking me.”

“No, I just want to see if you’re smart enough to figure it out.”  


“Of course I am.”  


“How many capfuls?”  


Wilford went silent, thinking. “I don’t--” he stuttered, throwing his hands up, “--I don’t know!”

Dark rolled his eyes. “Three. Put three capfuls in, and wash the shirts normally, okay?”

“Um, okay, but--”  


“And don’t forget-- only cold water.” Before Wilford could finish, Dark had carefully gathered up the blood-soaked jeans in the garbage bag and swept from the room. 

Wilford set the washer to a spin cycle before following, still in his boxers, muttering to himself. He found Dark in the kitchen, the blood somehow contained to the sink. 

“Is that... salt?”  


“Come here.”   


Wilford shuffled over, obedient, curious. He peeked over Dark’s shoulder, suddenly, acutely aware that he was almost entirely naked. 

“Here,” Dark said, stepping back, almost colliding with Wilford. He pushed a salt shaker and a bottle of dish soap into his hands, letting his eyes flick critically downwards. “Get scrubbing. This is your murder, after all, not mine.”  


Wilford huffed into his mustache, moving in front of the sink. Dark rinsed off his hands, wiping them on a paper towel, and made to leave the kitchen. 

“Hey, Dark?”  


“Yes?” Dark paused, looking back.  


“Thanks.”  


A jerk of his head, and the door closed behind him.

* * *

“Dark?”  


“I’m on my way home, what?”  


“It’s Wilford.”  


* * *

Dr. Iplier met him at the door, face paled. Dark stopped him with an urgent whisper, a nodding of heads. 

“He’s okay, but he’s... well, you should see him.”  


Dark hurried into Wilford’s room, a scowl determinedly in place on his face. It was a struggle to keep it from dropping as he walked in, taking in the scene.

Wilford lay in bed as if dead, pale against his sheets, covered in his own pink blood. The Doctor had taken care of him, of course, but it was a dull kind of terror that made its way through Dark’s shell. 

The carpet, so carefully cleaned when they’d first moved in, was covered in motley patches of blood: pink when they’d been fresh, but now dried to a dull orange-brown. Dark could’ve sworn that they sparkled as he stepped around them.

Wilford opened his eyes, blinking a little. “Ah, Darky! How nice of you to visit.” Boisterous, even weak.

“Shut up, Wilford,” Dark said, dropping tiredly into a chair.   


“Aww, are you _worried_  about me?”  


“I’m _worried_  you’ll blow our cover, idiot.”  


“Everything is fine,” Wilford muttered, pulling himself upright with gritted teeth.   


“Obviously not.”  


“You worry too much.”  


Dark looked up, eyes flicking over Wilford’s bandaged chest. “Not enough.”

Wilford could hear the sentiment in his voice, and grinned. “So, whaddya think, Dark?”

“What are you talking--”  


“D’you still think pink isn’t my color?”  



End file.
